


Heart and Home | 12.10 Coda

by theheartchoice



Series: DeanCas Codas | Season 12 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Grace, Castiel/Dean Winchester in the Bunker, Home, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e10 Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets, Season/Series 12, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 11:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13926105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartchoice/pseuds/theheartchoice
Summary: Back at the bunker, Cas is drained and Dean wants him to rest up.





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> Post-episode coda for 12.10.   
>  **note:** edited slightly for SPaG, 11-11-18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _so.. I did that thing where I skip from one POV to another.. oops._

Ishim's words has gotten to him. Add in the physical beating to that emotional one, and Dean knew Cas could do with a good night's rest. He insisted Cas at least  _try_ to close his eyes and turn his mind off for a few hours and allow his body to recover.

They stood at the threshold of Cas' room—one barely lived-in and lacking all nuance of personal touch—and Cas reared back, slightly. 

"Dean, this is pointless. I'm not tired." And yet his eyes were hanging from his head, and the entire walk from the garage Cas had leaned his weight into Dean. "I can do research in the librar—"

"—Cas, enough! Alright? You're gettin' some shut-eye, and that's final." If he had to treat Cas like a stubborn child then he would. He knew what was best right now, even if Cas couldn't see it.

Cas' riposte died on his lips, sighing as tired eyes drifted from Dean to the empty room.

"You spent enough of your Angel mojo healing that dick to earn yourself at least one goddamn night's rest. You need to heal. I won't take no for an answer."

Dean urged him through the doorway, hand at the small of Cas' back, closing the door with his boot behind them to dissuade any worry of Cas escaping back into the hall.

Hand still gripped in Cas' coat, he led him to the bedside and switched on the lamp. The room was bare. No pictures or art or weapons on the walls. Nothing on the desk but a blank notepad and pen. The TV remote sat on the nightstand beside the keys to Cas' truck. The drab palette and lack of character was not a welcome sight, with nothing at all to garner that feeling of _home_.

Dean made a mental note: tomorrow, he would help Cas decorate—any way he wanted.

It was a good idea, one he should've thought of sooner. Because he noticed something mingled in the exhaustion of Cas' features that tugged at his heart, like a child wanting to leave a place they found.. _disturbing, unfamiliar, uncomfortable._

"C'mon.." 

Dean turned Cas to face him, giving him something alive and reassuring to focus on. Palms slipping beneath the shoulders of his coat, Dean shifted it down til Cas worked it off over his hands. Dean hung it on the back of the door and returned his focus to his friend.

"You don't like it here, huh?" he muttered, avoiding Cas' eyes while loosening his tie.

When Cas didn't answer Dean looked up, snaking the tie through his grasp and searching Cas' face for a visual answer.

A weary sigh deepened the lines in Cas' face. "No, it—.. It is a nice room. Thankyou, Dean."

"Right."

Dean didn't believe him. Cas knew he didn't believe him. But neither had the energy to care at the moment. 

Unbuttoning Cas' shirt he was surprised to find a second layer: a white tee was half-tucked where his shirt had been into the wasitband of his trousers. Dean left Cas to finish up, expecting him to follow through from his example, and turned towards the dresser. 

"What are you doing..?"

Dean pulled open a draw. 

 

"There's nothing in there," Cas mumbled, spying Dean from the corner of his eye as he reached the final button.

The cotton dragged over his skin, feeling considerably more heavy than the light weight it should be. It seemed to gather with a thud on the floor as it fell from his shoulders. 

Reaching to remove his under-layer, Cas inhaled deep to muster the strength of raising his arms above his head. Perhaps a few hours rest would do him some good.

But he still couldn't shake the feeling of the room: it felt foreign, belonging to someone else—or many someones, like any of the countless, nameless motel rooms he had stayed in over the years whether with, or without the Winchesters.

He struggled as the fabric caught on its ascent, trying to keep his balance and free himself from the tangled confines of one too many layers.

Steady hands came to land on his shoulders just in time, before hoisting the confounded garment from his head and arms while helping him stay upright. 

"..There y'are."

Dean's soft smile sparkled, but was paired with concerned brows digging forward. He was worrying about Cas— _again_. 

Cas felt like a burden much of the time, and now he had let show his dislike for the room the brothers were kind enough to offer him. He had been ungrateful, and guilt churned sleepily in his gut.

"Thankyou, Dean." He needed to say more, needed to find words of appreciation lest Dean kick him to the curb— _again_. "I—.." But he wasn't given the chance.

Tossing his final layer to the ground to crumple atop his spent button-down, Dean reached for a pile of clothing—of _unfamiliar_ clothing—folded and waiting on the end of the bed.

"Comfy top—" Dean let the old tee unfurl in one hand, "and comfy bottom—" he let the pair of flannel pyjama bottoms unfurl in the other, both pieces of sleepwear hanging in display. 

"Where did you..?"

"I filled your dresser a few days ago. Thought you would've noticed, by now, actually."

Cas was dumbstruck. He glanced over at the open draw, now filled with all manner of casual wear. Dean lay the tee and pants back on the bed before stepping towards the closet.

"And I thought it would be a good idea if, y'know.." He stood holding open the closet door. Inside were a dozen or so white dress shirts neatly hanging, aside a dozen or so pairs of dark slacks. "Better you have some spares than waste your mojo on stitchin' cotton. I just figured, anyway.."

Cas' feet were on auto-pilot as he found himself beside Dean, fingers trailing along the garments that had been bought, prepared, and gifted just for him by the one person in the world whom it meant the most to recieve them from. 

"Dean, I—"

"—Don't sweat it."

Cas smiled. "But, how did you know—"

"—I took your measurements. When we got back from Gitmo, I just.. needed to keep myself busy, y'know? With.. _homey things_. I did laundry. Found your stuff, went out and bought some more."

"But, you were mad—"

"—And I needed a distraction. From those government spooks, from Billie.. Retail therapy. Works wonders." His smile stuttered as he continued on. "And.. this is _your_ room, Cas. It should be filled with _your things_ , with _you_."

Cas' arm moved of its own accord, hand suddenly squeezing Dean's bicep. " _Thankyou_ ," Cas reiterated, pouring every ounce of gratitude and fondness he had for this human into his voice, and into the look of admiration and affection he gifted back to him.

Dean Winchester was a rare and beautiful treasure.

Clearing his throat, Dean moved back to the mess of clothes on the floor, gathering them up and placing them in the hamper in the corner.

"Hey—" He called to Cas, who turned with one hand still caressing his new wardrobe. "Pants too, 'cmon."

Cas gave a nod, and began undoing his belt. He had somehow regained composure in his muscles, managing not to trip and stumble as he stepped out of his trousers. It was as he worked them over his ankles that Cas noticed the four pairs of boots standing to attention at the bottom of the—of _his—_ closet, cloaked in shadow.

"This.. must have been expensive," he remarked, straightening up and turning back to Dean. 

"It wa—.."

Cas stood only in his black boxers, and the sight apparently took Dean by surprise. He stood up from folding back the covers of the bed and cleared his throat again.

"It was worth it, Cas. Anything to flex my pool skills. Actually made more than I ended up spendin', so.. win-win." 

He beamed at Cas, though his face had reddened some and he avoided prolonged eye contact.

Dean grabbed the edge of the hamper and tilted the mouth toward Cas, prompting him to throw his trousers in. 

Cas gravitated to the bedside, reaching for the sleepwear and pulling on the flannel bottoms—almost tipping forward, but Dean's hand braced him, keeping him from falling. Cas peeked up at him, a shy smile thanking him.

The flannel was thick and soft and hugged his skin in the cool night air. As he pulled on the tee his eyes drew downward, noting the imagery on the front. The sleeves reached his elbows and the torso hung loose enough to curl up in. And it was all so familiar.

"This is.. _yours._ "

Dean nodded, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Yeah, well.. You need it more than I do."

Cas quirked his head at that. The shirt pulled taught from his fingertips clutching the hem. The upside-down symbology of Dean's favourite band stretched out beneath him.

"It's _comfort_ , Cas. You deserve a little comfort. You deserve to feel comfortable here. 'Cos.. this is _your_ home, too."

The flannel bottoms were helping, but it was the warmth of Dean's words, of his sentiment that wrapped around Cas' heart, hugging him from the inside out. 

And then his arms were around Dean; wayward again.

Where words failed, or didn't come, actions had always spoken clear and sincere between the two of them. Cas buried his face in Dean's collar, sighing into the contact, the familiarity, the comfort of good company.

 

Their bodies were flush. Dean's head told him that his arms wrapped around Cas to hold him steady. But his heart beat a different story, drumming bold and bathed in internal sunlight as his Angel embraced him.

Whatever bad air threatened to taint their friendship, Dean revered what they shared too damn much to let it fall apart, to give up on it all. He may have been mad at Cas for his reckless behaviour, but they would find a way to work through it. They always did. 

In the meantime, he'd be damned if this _profound bond_  of theirs twisted into something ugly and unfamiliar, something changed by the physical distance between them, and by the distance created by unspoken words.

He didn't want Cas to leave—not _again_. He needed to make sure he had a reason to stay—to _want_ to stay, like the feeling of _home_ that couldn't be found anywhere else.

Dean patted Cas' back and let their bodies part, reeling from the latent body-warmth and the feeling of hope that their friendship was still in-tact.

"Alright. Bedtime." Dean steered Cas to sit on the edge of the mattress. "Eight hours at _least_." 

The Angel tucked his feet in and settled down beneath the covers. 

"Dean?" Cas stopped him as he reached for the light.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I—.. would you, I mean.."

Dean moved closer to the bedside. 

"What is it, Cas?"

"Would you mind.. staying?" Cas tried, sounding uncertain. ”Just.. until I fall asleep?”

Without hesitation Dean nodded, moving around the bed towards the armchair which looked comfy enough, if not sat in for the past forty years.

The rustle and movement of sheets caught his attention. He turned to find Cas had folded back the covers, a bare space inviting Dean to join him.

 _Oh_.

Dean’s eyes flicked between the bed and the chair as Cas stubbornly tried to fend off sleep, eyelids now drooping as he forced them back open with each blink.

If Dean was being honest, he could cut and run right now; go back to his own room and his own bed, feeding Cas some bullshit excuse about needing his beloved memory foam to get a decent night's sleep. But he would no doubt find himself restless, waking several times in the night to wander back down the hall to check in on his friend.

He might as well just cut out the middleman and stay. Stay the night in Cas' room. In Cas' bed.

Toeing off his boots Dean left them by the nightstand. His belt came next, before slipping out of his jeans while facing the wall, folding them over the arm of the upholstered chair, his layers of shirts following. The last item was his watch, which he placed beside the small bedside lamp before tucking himself in beside Cas.

It was only then that he noticed the Angel staring: wide eyes framed in exhaustion, but definitely staring— _at Dean._

“What?”

Cas said nothing, but a smile sparkled in his eyes before he leaned out of bed to switch off the light on his side. Dean followed suit, switching off his own lamp.

He settled back down beside Dean, who hoisted the covers up over his chest.

 _Better a mattress than some old manky chair_ , he thought. And even though it wasn’t memory foam, Dean had to admit it was damn comfy. The ache eased out of his bones as his muscles melted into the lure of sleep. He might well beat Cas to _Dreamland_.. or whatever the Angel equivalent of that was.

They both needed this: Cas’ grace needed to recharge and Dean had faced-off with one too many Angels in the past 24 hours, earning him at least a few hours of comfortable unconsciousness.

The shadows pressed in on him, insistent. Cas’ smile lingered in his mind though, and before he could surrender to sleep, one more thought nagged at him.

There was something he had to do, something that had to be done _now,_ else his courage would fade—soon enough _today_ would be  _tomorrow_ and the moods and mindsets of now would be reset,  _post-sleep_.

Still, not exactly trusting his fatigued self to make any hasty decisions in spoken-word-form, Dean fell back on instinct, giving over to the whims of his body; it was both his _out_ to be bold now and his excuse for later should things go awry.

He turned on his side and his arm moved around Cas. He shuffled a little forward, and, to his delight, Cas shuffled a little back. The warmth of a body beside him ensured Cas was there, and alive. He was safe, and the weight of his arm around Cas ensured Dean that he would stay.

Dean’s hand fisted loosely in the covers around Cas’ torso and the Angel's hand found Dean’s bare forearm, resting there, warm flesh on warm flesh, grazing patterns with just enough pressure so as not to tickle.

Dean inhaled steady, slow, deep, his nose buried in the soft tufts of hair before him. A solid, warm expanse of Angel in his arms, safe and near. The last thing Dean felt before sleep, was Cas settling back into his touch.

 

The gift of clothes were a kind gesture, helping Cas to feel less out of place in a space that had been reserved just for him, but which had so far failed to feel familiar (in a good way).

But it was the human curled around him, warm and alive and falling asleep in _his_ bed, that helped the room to finally feel like _home_.

The last thing Cas felt before sleep, was the press of Dean’s lips in his hair.

Now, wherever Cas would find himself from this moment on, when his mission or the next battle would take him far from the bunker, far from the presence of the Winchesters, he could at least find comfort in the memory of Dean beside him, around him.

Anytime Cas was homesick, he would think of _this_ moment.

He would think of his place in the bunker; think of _Dean_.

They were one in the same.

Dean was his  _Home_.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡  also on tumblr @ [theheartchoice](http://theheartchoice.tumblr.com/post/171726859068/home-part-i)  ♡


	2. Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking to an angel in his arms was the best feeling Dean had known in a long time. Until it was the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This coda grew because morning thoughts happen. A little sleep-deprived by the time I finished, but lots of good feels to warm the heart.   
> 

Dean woke with a sated moan in the chilled air of the bunker.

The body that had been pressed up against him before sleep had claimed him apparently turned around in the night: chest now flush with his own, legs entwined, arm secure around his waist.

He snuggled closer, unable to remember the last time he had slept so well: no nightmares, no fragmented dreams, waking rested and rejuvenated..

His palm splayed between Cas' shoulder blades, and slid up to card through his bedhair. Dean planted a kiss in the Angel’s hairline.

"Mornin', _Sunshine_.."

There was light and warmth in his voice, care and tenderness in his movements.

Whatever he and Cas were before this moment, they were something else, now. Something more.

Cas shifted, broaching a conscious state with low, resistive grumbles, before burying himself deeper in the covers, wrapping himself tighter around Dean.

It was kind of adorable.

Dean knew Cas wasn't much of a morning person, but this was the first time he was able to experience it up close and personal.

Cas wanted his _five more minutes_ of sleep. He wanted _five more minutes_ of being entwined in Dean's warm embrace.

Who was Dean to deny him that?

He settled into his pillow, drinking in the sleep-scent of Cas, nose nestled in his hair as his mind unwantingly drifted back to their fight before the case—before the murdered Angels and that douchebag Ishim.

His mind skipped ahead to later: in the bunker, sharing beers with his brother and his Angel, being with his _family_.

They had made their peace. Hard truths were said plain, instead of concealing them in anger and wordless cold shoulders. They still had a fair amount of shit to deal with, as was the norm, but they were on the same page now. They would work through it together.

And all was forgiven. Because Cas did save their lives, afterall. No matter what mess became of his good intentions, Dean was glad he and his brother—and their mom—were still alive. He was glad Cas cared so much.

He was also glad he had the chance to show Cas how much he cared, in return. Because Cas was prepared to shoulder the burden of cosmic consequences alone, and even though that wasn't the reality, it was what he was prepared to do in order to save them.

Dean had lowered his hand from the blood sigil, prepared to face off against Ishim, alone—beaten and bloody, not knowing if he would survive a front-on Angel assault—rather than risk losing Cas.

So much had happened these past few days. Dean wouldn't change it, though, if all of it had led to this moment. To a very special, very sleepy Angel curled up in his arms, wearing his favourite Zeppelin shirt, nuzzling into him on a wish for _five more minutes_ uninterrupted cuddle-time, and—

.. _oh_.

".. _Dean?_.."

The raspy voice poured into the air like coffee grounds, perking up Dean’s senses. Half-muffled between them, Dean decided It was now one of his favourite sounds in the entire world, and he smiled into the soft mop of hair before him.

" _Mmm_.. yeah, Cas?.." He _tried_ to play it cool.

"Uhm.." Cas shifted slightly, hips moving away to create space between their bodies, the morning chill seeping in. "Are you..?"

"Yeah, I uhh.. _hmh_.." Dean chuckled into his pillow. Their bodies separated, he could now feel the rush of blood to his morning wood. "..Sorry 'bout that," he mumbled through a growing smile. "Human reflex, it's a, uhm.. sleep-thing."

He urged Cas back into their cocoon, leg coaxing and hand dragging lazy lines up and down his back.

Cas rejoined their cuddle, but seemingly now mindful of the issue between Dean's thighs which—for his own brief stint as a human—might know wouldn't fade away on its own.

The Angel fidgeted, small noises of discontent crawling up through the sheets. He was trying to keep from putting pressure on Dean's groin, while simultaneously not giving up on their embrace.

"Cas, if it really bothers you, I can just—“ Dean moved to untangle them, intending to take care of himself in the shower. He would make sure to set some coffee to brew first, and swipe two cups enroute back to Cas' bedroom, refreshed and ready to lure a grumpy Angel from their huddle of blankets.

That thought made him smile, sobering Dean from the remaining lure of sleep: _He was in Cas' bedroom. He was in Cas' bed. With Cas. Cas had slept beside him, in his arms. They had woken together. They were pressed together._

This was all new. But it didn't feel weird.

Whatever this meant for their friendship, Dean couldn't help the joy speading his lips against Cas' temple as it dawned on him that all these things meant Cas was finally settling in. He was allowing himself to feel welcome, to feel wanted.

He was allowing the bunker to feel like his true home.

Lost in that sunny reverie, it took a moment for Dean to realise he had abandoned his retreat, and was once again wrapped around his Angel—who had himself abandoned the need for space between them, pressing his body fully up against Dean's with one leg wrapped around his hip, thick thigh muscle clamping Dean in place.

It took another moment for him to reconcile a sudden spike of pleasure with Cas’ touch: _movement_ ; a fervid force rocked into him, sparking Dean’s want for friction, a current of _need_ pulling more blood south and threatening to drain all common sense and decency.

“Cas, you don't have t—“

“—I _want_ to.."

 _Oh_.

Well, in _that_ case, the Angel gets what the Angel wants. And thankfully, his and Dean’s were one in the same.

"Then.. _I_ want you to."

Conversation lulled from then on, making way for shallow breaths and quieted moans.

Dean's leg, slipped between Cas' thighs, pulled him closer. Cas' hips worked with equisite motion—more friction than finess, but still: Dean had to wonder where he learned his moves, and what other budding skills Cas was hiding.

It was during this momentus first contact that Dean realised he wasn't the only one who sprouted hardwood overnight.

Cas' member was a sturdy presence rubbing up against him—against the juncture of his thigh, against the bulging, moistening cotton of his boxers.

Dean stalled his motions, one hand on Cas' hip to halt them, the other brushing back hair from his brow as he leaned back.

For the first time that morning, he caught sight of Cas' eyes: all pastel blues, dreamy-glazed and sparkling. His lips also drew Dean's attention: pink and plush, seeming thicker than usual, somehow—fuller and more kissable than ever. They were parted and his breaths were coming lazy and ragged.

"You _too_..?"

Dean rasped, pushing wayward strands of hair back from Cas' forehead.

Cas gulped, wetting his lips as his gaze fell to Dean's.

"Is this.. _normal_ , for you—? As an Angel, I mean.."

Cas fidgeted against Dean's hold; wanting to close the distance. His eyes flitted up to Dean's and back down to his lips, which Dean was now sucking in every few seconds because the morning chill had completely evaporated and maybe the bunker's heating had finally kicked in.

"No, It's an.. _Angel-mojo_ , thing."

Dean's hand traced down the side of Cas' face, thumb edging along his jaw as he tried to comprehend those words.

"It happens, sometimes, when my grace needs.. recharging. I become more.."

"..Human."

Dean knew at once that was both a _very good wonderful fantastic_  thing, and a _very bad holy shit no please god NO_  thing.

For starters, it meant Cas could _totally_ get hard and get off—and hell, if that wasn't _damn good_ to know for certain. But it also meant that it was a side-effect, that for it to happen there first had to be a hefty drain of Cas' energy, like a battle-wound or using his grace to help heal someone or defend someone in need—Dean, most likely. His Angel essence needed to wane significantly for his Humanity to become more.. _corporeal_.

Which meant that when Cas' grace had recharged he would no longer feel.. _this way_. He would have no urge to rub up against Dean, because there would be no need for it.

That thought travelled south against the rush of Dean's heated desire, a cooling undercurrent to the rising temperature of the troublesome thing between his thighs. And it settled in his chest, too, where the warmth that filled every cell of his being began to fade, leaving him feeling uncomfortably numb.

Funny, how things can change so completely in a matter of seconds.

Everything that had given Dean hope—the physical intimacy, Cas accepting _his damn clothes_ and _his own damn room_ , finding comfort in his own space in the bunker and by Dean's side, hell, Cas _sleeping_ — _all_ of it could be traced back to his wilted grace.

In a few days it would be replenished, and Cas would hit the road— _again_ —if not sooner.

Dean hated himself for thinking it, but it seemed the more _Angel-ness_ that made up Cas, the less he would want to be around Dean.. _with_ Dean. And he felt himself wish _against_ it.

Memories of a Human Cas flooded in.

 _What if Gadreel hadn't insisted Cas leave? What if he had stayed with them in the bunker?_ Dean would have trained him and they could have hunted together. And maybe this thing between them, this _profound bond_ of theirs, would have had the chance to evolve into something more, naturally.

Dean's heart constricted that the chance was stolen from them, or maybe that he let it slip through his fingers, that he didn't try hard enough—didn't _fight_ hard enough for Cas to stay. He could have found middleground, convinced Zeke it would be safer to keep Cas near than to send him away. He could have healed his brother and been schooling Cas in the ways of Humanity at the same time.

It wasn't fair. Life wasn’t fair. They never seemed to catch a break, were never given a real chance to see things through to becoming something else, something _more_.

Dean's thoughts had so consumed him that he didn't notice how he'd removed himself from Cas' hold, from their close proximity. They were laying side by side, now, Dean's eyes distant on the ceiling.

Cas was eyeing the door. He moved to rise first, but Dean stopped him.

"Cas.." Dean's hand was around his wrist. "Lemme explain, please."

He could tell Cas was upset, no doubt feeling rejected, as if he had done something wrong, or that Dean had suddenly realised he was disgusted with him, not aroused. 

His heart crushed in on itself at the possibility.

"There is no need, Dean. I understand."

"Like _hell_." There was every need. And now was a time for words, plain and bold. And Dean found the courage to voice them in the warmth of the Angel in his grasp. "I don't wanna take advantage of you, Cas—of what we have. You deserve better than that."

Cas turned back to him, eyes wide with concern.

"You are not at fault, Dean. I chose this."

“But you’re not yourself, right? Your grace—it’s runnin’ a little low. So what you feel right now, may not be..”

Dean wasn’t given the chance to finish voicing his worry as Cas latched onto him: lips and hands and legs; _tasting, overlapping, pulling, pressing, enticing_.

“This _is_ me, Dean. Always.”

The sentiment sank into his mouth and tasted sweet and true on Dean's tongue. He would be in denial if he said he never noticed Cas staring, or felt the unspoken (sexual) tension between them, brewing over the years. Perhaps it was just fear seeding doubt in Dean’s mind: fear that he wouldn’t be (good) enough for Cas; fear that Cas would leave again (leave him _alone_ ; leave _because_ of him).

It was one thing to yearn, to imagine and _pine,_ but never know what it was to really  _experience_.

It was another thing for fantasy to become reality, clouds transmuting to something tangible, physical and warm, and then—for that solid, certain thing to be ripped from Dean’s grasp, for those hands warming his heart to wrench it in twain in their retreat.

And that was the risk. That was the question.

Did Dean believe in himself _enough_ , in the way Cas _looked_ at him and _touched_ him and drew him _closer_ to know _every_ part of him and _never_ turn away, _never_ reject him, _never_ ask for more than Dean could _give_ or _be_..?

Did Dean want that? Did he want Cas to settle for him when he deserved so much more?

And if he managed to placate his doubts about being _good enough_ for Cas and about whether or not Cas’ _truly_  cared for him.. Did he then trust Cas not to break his heart?

Perhaps an equally fair and equally dire concern was whether or not Dean would break Cas’ heart—however unwittingly—and if all these worries that knotted in his gut and tightened in his chest were merely a Human burden, or whether Cas wondered and feared the same.

 

*****

 

Three nights later, between the sheets with some Netflix n’ Chill, Cas rolled away from Dean’s advances. Eyes closed in concentration, eyeballs jittery behind their lids like he had slipped into REM sleep, Dean palmed his bicep, alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind.

"Cas?.. What is it?.."

"..Angel Radio.”

 _Oh_. _Great_.

“There’s.. word of Lucifer.."

Better than great. _Cockblocking Angels._  Now there’s a surprise.

"..You're leavin'."

It wasn't a question. Cas rolled back into his gravity but Dean sat up, popcorn spilling between them atop the sheets.

"Dean.."

"No, it's good. This is good—It’s a lead. You should.. you should go.."

He didn't want Cas to go.

"I.. don't want to leave you."

So they’re on the same page, then. For now.

“Well, good. I’m.. glad to hear that.”

But what was he doing? Keeping Cas from tracking down Lucifer—was it the desire to keep him safe, or keep him near? Would Dean object if he could tag along and help? How needy was _too needy_ when you lived the lifestyle of Hunters and Angels?

“Look.." Dean sighed, turning inward toward Cas. "I don’t want you to go, Cas. But.. maybe you need to."

“Oh. Right..”

Cas sounded dejected. Maybe he expected Dean to fight him on this—like he does with anything relating to Angels or Heaven or those Brimstone bastards from the basement. But Dean thought he hated that. In fact, he _knew_ Cas hated it when he would go against his wishes or try to circumvent his plans, his mission, thinking he, _Dean Winchester_ , knew best.

Had things changed so completely between them that Cas now _appreciated_ Dean’s dogged reactions to his breathren? Did he look forward to it, feeling reassured by the concern of someone who _truly_ cared about him?

..Was Cas even aware _how much_ Dean cared about him? Had Dean been _clear_ in his actions, and with his simple, stuttered, hesitant words? And how exactly _did_ Dean feel about him? Was it on the level of that terrifying four-letter word?

A chill froze Dean as he scooped popcorn mindlessly back into the bowl. That was the big question, the one thing that deserved some serious special attention. And then, as soon as he figured out his answer, Cas deserved to know.

But _how the hell_ was he suppose to figure out said-answer? How did he get to that point? And how would he know it was _real_ and _certain_ and not just some whiskey-glazed confusion plaguing his nights in Cas’ absence.

”I..” Cas contemplated for a moment, coming to a firm resolve. "I shall leave—in the morning."

Maybe he wanted more of Dean—to fight for him to stay.

But Dean wanted something, too: he wanted Cas to _want_ to stay, and he couldn’t help the chill from spreading through his veins as he wondered over Cas’ affections: perhaps he didn’t feel as strongly as Dean did about this 'unnamed thing' growing, moving, stalling between them.

It was too much to battle all at once, and the loss of warmth in Dean’s bones was making him antsy.

He tossed the bowl aside not caring of the mess and slid over to rest atop Cas, pinning him to the mattress. He let the physical sensation of _Cas_ , warm and safe and at least somewhat caring beneath him perk his mood up, warm his heart back up.

“..I’m glad to hear it.”

Cas quirked a brow, missing the connect from _broody-Dean_ to _frisky-Dean_.

“Oh. So.. you want me to leave?”

“Hell _no_ , Cas.” He pressed a smiling kiss to the Angel's lips. "But you make your own choices." Another kiss. "You gotta do what you gotta do." And one more, lingering and sweet. "I'm proud of you." Cas smiled back, timid and sad, but seemingly grateful for Dean's words.

And hell  _yes_ to _so_ many things, so many unspoken truths they didn’t have time to get into right now. Besides, Dean had something else, something more pressing, something leaching warmth from Cas’ body back into his own, to attend to.

Angelic bedhair in a Led Zeppelin tee, golden-toned muscles and eyes of limitless sky and the deepest blue ocean. This beautiful being, for at least the next ten hours, was all  _his_. And until Dean determined the words in which to express his feelings for Cas, for tonight, he would _show_ Cas that he was his— _wholly_ and _only_.

“What d’you say we skip the _Netflix_ and move right on to the _Chill_..?”

“I thought.. that's what we were doing?”

Dean shook his head lightly, hands around Cas’ wrists on the pillow, torsos aligning, legs dividing.

“ _Mm-mm._. Seems like this is another teachable moment..”

And with a smirk and a roll of his hips, Dean sank into a deep kiss, the first of many deep kisses and deeper things, fully committed to educating Cas, indulging one kind of ‘chill’ and using it to displace another.

 _Fear, doubt, uncertainty_ —they could all take a backseat. Because if this was the last night they would spend together for a while (hopefully not _too_ long), then Dean—sure as Heaven is just whitewashed Hell—was _not_ going to waste it.

  

Hours drifted by in ecstasy, tossed sheets and kernals of caramel corn flying through the shadows. They set the soundtrack of the night to their own pleasure, lust and ache and genuine, gentle affection manifesting as a manic melody, filling the room to take on its own presence.

   

As dawn neared and their physical explorations tapered off, Dean pulled Cas in close, a full-body cuddle urging him to catch a couple hours naptime before the drive ahead.

Their post-coital voices were only a whisper yet were spoken with all sincerity, bodies echoing their sentiments, hands trailing over tender flesh, heartbeats pressed close, falling in sync.

"..I'll miss you, Dean.."

"..Yeah.. me too.."

  

After a late breakfast, the brothers saw Cas off.

Dean let Sam get his ginormo hug in before he pulled Cas in close, unabashadly inhaling his Angel's scent, holding him well past the standard hug-time, savouring every moment, every detail for his memory.

Cas’ hands snuck beneath Dean’s jacket, securing around his waist between the layers, trying to get as close to Dean as possible. Who-knows how long it would be before they would see each other again, before they could take the time to _be_ with each other again.

The nature of their embrace was no doubt noticed from the outside; Sam could see, and Dean was sure he knew what it meant to him.

It was the kind of farewell reserved for lovers parting at the airport gate or on a train platform. The kind of moment filmed a thousand times over in every romance story that aimed to leave its audience _pining, aching, loving_ and _hurting_ vicariously for their fictional friends.

Dean ran a hand through Cas’ hair, smooshed his lips against his temple, and whispered a promise only for his ears.

“You come back soon, y’hear?.. Or I _will_ be forced to hunt you down.”

“Like a rabid dog?" Cas muffled into his collar, "Or a.. lovesick puppy?”

From the mouth of a man with the face of a damn (ancient) _puppy_ , and a heart just as pure.

“More like.. a homesick Human.”

  

Cas’ grip tightened around Dean, struggling to hold onto what little motive he had left to leave—to leave Dean behind,  _The Devil_ be damned.

“Just.. stay safe out there, alright? And.. come back to me, Cas.”

“I will.”

"keep yourself In one piece.”

“One piece,” he repeated, feeling his eyes moisten in the pale Autumn sun, mouth twitching with a sad smile against Dean's neck. “Alright.”

“And.. If it _is_ more than one piece.. I’ll just put you back together myself.”

Without concern for Sam or even Dean, Cas pressed a reverent kiss upon his Human's gloomy lips.

“You’re the _only one_ , Cas,” he breathed, fighting the gravity between them. “Take care of yourself. For both our sakes.”

With a gentle nod and a final kiss to Cas' temple, Dean relinquished his hold, and Cas piled into his truck and drove away from the bunker, from his home, from Dean. 

 

It was funny in that cruel sort of way, _the universe laughing at him_ kind of way: suddenly, Dean didn’t need anymore time to think. He _knew_ how he felt. Between last night and this moment, the answer had surfaced naturally, and was now clear in his mind: _Cas was his one, his only_. And Dean wanted to be with him, _now and always and completely_.

He was pretty sure that merited a certain four-letter-word. But fear no longer troubled him. He wasn’t afraid of being with Cas, of bearing his heart and Cas offering his in return. He wasn't even afraid of breaking Cas' heart—because he would sooner die than be the one to hurt him (not again).

The only fear Dean felt now was the cruelty of Fate, of consequences separating them before they could take things further— _together_ —before Dean could profess how he felt in every way imaginable—in both _actions_ , and _words_.

Cas had his whole damn heart; Cas was his home.

He felt warmed by that very special, _soon-to-be-spoken_ , four-letter-word.

It was indeed, _Love_.

And that was not something to be feared.  

 


End file.
